


is that all?

by notjodieyet



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alcohol, Intoxication, once again im writing thrissyrose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26009263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjodieyet/pseuds/notjodieyet
Summary: the doctor has had a bit too much to drink & rambles/flirts with her wife.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/Missy, Thirteenth Doctor/Missy/Rose Tyler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	is that all?

Everything was just  _ fantastic, _ the Doctor thought, gaping at the blurry lights spinning around her. Snow drifted down from the sky and landed on her eyelashes, obscuring her view with countless white smudges. She giggled, and her limbs gave out, sending her tumbling backwards into a very polite stranger’s arms.

“Heyyyyyyyyyy,” said Missy, who was decidedly neither a stranger or particularly polite. A lazy grin was stretched out over her lips, which had lost all their scarlet lipstick sometime in the last three hours or so, and her hair had completely escaped its tight pins and ties to fall in a long, undignified, fluffy heap around her head. “Heyyyyy,  _ Doctorrrrr _ .” Her letters were slurred and slanted together, as if she’d had too much to drink. (She had. Both of them had, probably,  _ far _ too much to drink. Two hours ago, both of them were officially unfit to drive a TARDIS. Who knew what they were qualified for now. Not much, probably). 

The Doctor twisted around, grabbed Missy’s face, and kissed her, wet and sloppy, and it tasted like whiskey. The Doctor took a moment to consider the taste, and then went promptly in for another go, prodding her tongue around the inside of Missy’s mouth. It was not extraordinarily pleasurable for either of them, but it was amusing nonetheless. 

“Miissyyy,” said the Doctor, stumbling her words against Missy’s mouth. Missy smelled like peaches, under the overwhelming scent of alcohol, and the Doctor liked it. The Doctor liked peaches. “Let’s… go. Somewhere.”

Missy looked at the Doctor through her lashes, thick and clumpy from uneven mascara. “Where?” she said, arching an eyebrow more delicately than should have been possible, considering her current state of inebriation. She’d always held her liquor better than the Doctor, although she didn’t always act it. “Whyy?”

“‘Cause.” The Doctor giggled and pressed their lips together once again, this time as chastely as possible. It was still drippy. “Come on. Not here.” The Doctor waved an arm broadly at the crowd around them, drinking and laughing and milling around. She leaned over and snatched a flute of champagne from a waitress’s tray, and with a couple tries, managed to bring it to her lips and take a long draw. “You want some?”

“All right,” Missy allowed. She finished off the glass and licked her lips. “I think we’ve… I think we’ve had en _ ough _ .” Her accent swung wildly on the last syllable of “enough,” from Scottish to something more alien. Not her natural Gallifreyan, which was lighter and more melodic; not her earlier varieties of British (any of them), which were somewhat steadier. The Doctor couldn’t quite place it. 

Missy flung the empty champagne flute behind her shoulder, and grinned at the sound of breaking glass on concrete. “New York City, baby,” she murmured in the Doctor’s ear. “Happy New Year.”

The Doctor’s lips dropped down to Missy’s neck and repeated the sentiment, quietly, against her warm skin. She felt dizzy — oh, so  _ very _ dizzy — but Missy’s body heat, her peaches-and-whiskey scent, her near glow in the city lights and the snow, were all grounding the Doctor as much as the Doctor could possibly be grounded. “I’mmmmm,” drawled the Doctor. 

“Yes?” The Doctor felt a slender hand rest atop her hair, stroking her head possessively.

“I’m in  _ love  _ with you,” the Doctor said, wondering at herself. Hadn’t she always been in love with Missy? Hadn’t it always been like this, her head on Missy’s shoulder and Missy’s fingers in her hair, swaying gently in a crowd as snow sprinkled from the sky? The Doctor could hear her own heartbeats in her ears, pounding out their four-part beat. The tempo was almost the same as Missy’s, but not  _ quite _ , and the discrepancy was frustrating. 

“Oh,” said Missy. Her breaths softened, synchronized with the Doctor’s. “Is that all?” 

A flare of anger flickered to life in the Doctor’s chest.  _ Is that all? _ As if wars had not been fought and won and lost in the name of their love. As if they could not wander hand-in-hand through the graveyard of lost friends, beneath the dewy grass, for the sake of the two of them together. As if their blood had not mingled and stained the ocean red for the want of a kiss, or two. “Yes,” said the Doctor.

Missy said, “Oh,” again, and her hand slipped off the Doctor’s head and down, down, down, until it rested on the small of her back. “I’m in love with you, too,” she added. 

The Doctor kissed at her jawline, too lazy to find her lips again. A sudden exhaustion had overtaken her. It was, realistically, probably the alcohol leadening her limbs and burdening her lids, but it felt like something more quietly holy. She wanted to fall asleep draped over Missy’s body, tangled together with her, their breaths mingling and their fingers woven together. “Is that all,” she said.

“No,” said Missy. “It isn’t.”

She didn’t say anything else.

A snowflake landed on her nose, and the Doctor watched, with fascination, as it melted into a tiny drop of water before her eyes and slid down Missy’s face like a halfway-belated tear. The Doctor took a step back. It was chilly, suddenly. The city lights blurred around her.

“ _ There _ you are.” A hand grabbed the Doctor’s arm, and the Doctor froze in panic. She knew more than this:  _ twist, run, jab,  _ anything — but before she had a chance to defend herself, the owner of the hand twirled the Doctor around to face them, and the Doctor was standing in front of her very tired wife. “Where have you been? Clara said you’d went off outside, and there are a million and one people out here, and you’re hardly dressed for January. The two of you are going to catch your deaths out here, you know.”

“I doubt there’s any need to worry,” said Missy, haughtily. It would have made more impact had her words not begun to blur into each other from pure intoxication. “We’re. Uhhhhh.  _ Uhhhhhh _ .” She nudged the Doctor. “What’s the word.”

“Time Lords,” the Doctor offered. 

“Nahhhh.”

“Erm. Gallifreyans?” The Doctor wasn’t sure what Missy was looking for, and she’d also lost half of her vocabulary sometime after her fifteenth drink. “People?”

“ _ No _ .”

Rose crossed her arms. “You are both full-grown adults —”

Missy cried out. “ _ Adults.  _ That’s it. Adults. We’re adultsss, Rose, we can… we can handle ourselves.” She shuffled forward and looped her arm through the Doctor’s. The Doctor felt a surge of responsibility, as if she was meant to protect Missy from  _ something, _ although there was nobody but Rose. The Doctor’s hand grasped her sonic in her coat pocket anyway. She would defend Missy from the world, if necessary, however wobbly her legs were beneath her.

“I think it’s high time you girls get to bed,” said Rose, reaching out and snatching the sonic and stuffing it in her coat pocket. “Come on. The TARDIS is inside.”

“Is it,” said the Doctor. She only dimly remembered parking the TARDIS. (Parking? Was it  _ parking, _ really?) “I’m gonna sleep with  _ Missy _ .”

“Yes, all right,” said Rose. “Missy sleeps with us anyway, dear, how much did you  _ drink  _ good Lord. I thought Time Lords didn’t get like this.”

Missy, without warning, flung herself on Rose and kissed her solidly on the mouth. The Doctor watched with jealous amazement. “You’re very pretty,” she said, and then kissed her again, her hands groping at the back of Rose’s hair. 

“Thank… you?” said Rose. “You’re very pretty as well. Come along, now.”

The Doctor, not one to be outshine,  _ also _ grabbed hold of Rose, but didn’t kiss her. She leaned her head on Rose’s shoulder. “You gotta sleep with us too, Rosie. Rooose. Rose Tyyyyyyler.” The Doctor laughed at herself. “Roooooooose.” 

Rose nodded. “Yes. You’re both very nice. Thank you. We’ll be off now.” 

* * *

Once Rose had successfully dragged both her wives into the TARDIS, the Doctor watched her through blurry eyes as she set the coordinates on the console to empty space, and did her best not to tip over when the ship started shaking under her feet.

She turned to Missy and the Doctor. “Bed, now,” she said, briskly.

The Doctor smirked. “Forward of you, isn’t it?”

Rose did not look amused. She grabbed Missy by her collar and dragged her to the bedroom, leaving the Doctor to stumble behind. “Clothes,” Rose snapped. 

Missy went pinker than she’d been before. “Oh?”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Clothes.  _ Off _ . You too,” she said, to the Doctor, and grabbed two of Missy’s nightshirts from the bedstand. “And pyjamas.”

The Doctor, grumbling, fumbled with her bow tie and managed to fling it on the floor. She shrugged off her suit jacket and began on the many, many buttons in a snaking line down her front. Her fingers felt big and impossibly chunky pulling at the tiny delicate fastenings, and she was afraid she was going to rip the tiny threads holding them down. “Help,” she muttered. 

Rose was in front of her, suddenly, unbuttoning the Doctor’s dress shirt with practiced quickness. (From the Doctor’s stripey, spiky haired body, when Rose had first started undressing the Doctor. She’d gotten good). “You look… tired.” 

“I  _ am _ tired.” That same weariness was settling in her bones, the one that pleaded with her to lie down with Missy and Rose wrapped around her and sleep for a century.

Missy was already in bed. The Doctor crawled in next to her and kissed her temple, then turned over to do the same to Rose. Sandwiched between her wife and her slightly more murderous wife: what more could the Doctor ask for? She sighed, happily. “G’night.”

“Shut the  _ fuck _ up,” murmured Missy.

“Fine.”

“Fuck you.”

Rose shushed them both. 


End file.
